


Bite Me

by Whatsastory



Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [17]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Thoughts of Suicide, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24204238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatsastory/pseuds/Whatsastory
Summary: If Mickey knew that raising a newborn vampire was this much work, well, he’d do it again in a heartbeat.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Trope Me, Baby, One More Time [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1668712
Comments: 19
Kudos: 126





	Bite Me

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a light hearted little comedy. It changed into something a lot darker. Keep yourself mentally healthy and skip this one if you’re in a rough time right now.

The day Mickey dragged home the mostly dead body, he didn't really know what he was getting himself into, to put it mildly. He knew, in the back of his mind, that raising a new born vampire was a lot like raising, well, a newborn baby, but fuck. He'd heard stories of their neediness, their crying, the over all demand for attention, but nothing he ever heard could have prepared him for a newborn Ian Gallagher. 

He's trying to sleep on what he thinks is a Tuesday afternoon. Time sort of seems to blend together lately, with his usual routine so thrown off by having another being to take care of. He's exhausted to his core, bone tired, and he's determined to get some shut eye. The whole, "sleep while the new born sleeps," is difficult, especially when the newborn barely fucking sleeps. It's like, Ian falls asleep, and Mickey realizes he forgot to take care of something or another, and by the time he gets it figured out, Ian's awake again. And Mickey's maybe losing his mind. Just a little. 

So he's in bed, has his blanket pulled up to his chin, his blackout curtains pulled tight, and he's in that sweet spot between being awake and asleep. The house is quiet and it's... bliss. He's just about to feel floaty, really let himself go... and then he feels it. 

His eyes snap open at the disturbance in the atmosphere, drawn back and ready for a scuffle, but all he sees are vibrant green eyes, too close to his own for comfort. 

"What the fuck, man?" He groans and slowly lets himself relax again. 

"I'm really hungry," Ian tells him. 

"Well, you're gonna have to wait. We ran out of our last rations earlier. I'll go out and get some more when the sun goes down."

"But Mickey," Ian whines. "I'm really hungry now."

"Dunno what to tell you, man. You're gonna have to go hungry for a while," Mickey groans and tugs his pillow from beneath his head and drapes it over his face, trying in vain to drown his pesky new housemate out. 

"I'm gonna starve," Ian cries as he pries the pillow from Mickey's pale, cool fingers.

"You're not gonna starve, Ian, fuck. You just ate like, two hours ago." 

"Well, my stomach hurts," Ian pouts and sits down roughly on the edge of Mickey's mattress. 

Micky grumbles as he's shuffled around, screams internally at his lack of sleep and overall agitation. He's beyond irritated at this point, quite frankly bordering on red-blind rage, but he feels himself back in. Tries to breathe as he reminds himself that Ian's new at this; doesn't quite understand how to function just yet. He counts to ten (he has to start over a few times when Ian starts tapping at Mickey's foot for attention), and soon he gets back to a place of just generally annoyed. 

"So... since we can't eat, can we watch a movie?" Ian tires instead. 

"Jesus Christ Ian, you're like a baby trapped in a grown man's lanky ass body," Mickey growls and throws himself back dramatically. 

"I'm not a baby. You're the baby," Ian pouts and holy shit. If Mickey didn't kind of like the guy (it's probably more like Stockholm syndrome at this point), he'd sink his fully formed fangs in Ian's neck and yank his stupid head right off the hinges. 

"Okay, Ian. I'm the fucking baby here." Immature? Maybe. But he's negotiating with a terrorist here, cut him some slack. 

"Size of a baby..." Ian murmurs and pointedly ignored Mickey's glare. 

Ian's quiet for a few perfect moments, and Mickey, in all of his tired ass glory, thinks for just a second that Ian's decided to chill the fuck out and let him catch some z's. He lets his eyes fall closed once more. Feels himself start to breathe deeply... 

"So, about that movie..." 

"Holy fuck," Mickey screeches and whips the blanket away from his legs, plants his feet firmly on the dingy carpeted floor and grabs Ian's wrist, dragging him into the living room where he deposits him roughly on the stained plaid patterned couch. 

"I wanna watch-"

"No!" Mickey cuts, "You, shut the fuck up. You come in there and you whine and you bitch and you moan and you don't let me sleep! You need fed and watered and someone to watch movies with and someone to keep you company because you're fucking lonely. I'm picking the movie. I'm picking the movie!" 

Ian doesn't say anything back, it he raises his eyebrows in a way that suggests that he thinks Mickey's bordering on hysterical, and you know what, maybe he is. Who wouldn't be- living like this. In this fucking prison without bars. 

"Didn't know picking a movie was such a big deal, Jesus..." Ian mutters under his breath, and Mickey may have super sonic hearing, but he'll choose not to engage. Someone needs to be the bigger man, after all. 

Mickey picks an action flick. One he's seen a million and a half times and could recite front to back, one that he doesn't need to pay any attention to. As the opening credits begin, he gives Ian a look, and Ian mimes zipping up his lips with a happy grin. 

And okay, he's cute. He's real fucking cute but it doesn't mean he's not a colossal pain in the ass- and not even the good kind. It doesn't matter that the glow of the screen makes his eyes twinkle or that the soft blue glow of light makes his hair darken in color, framing his rigid pale face. None of it matters, because of his stupid fucking mouth. 

"I just feel like maybe we should have watched Twilight, y'know? So I could learn about our heritage?" 

Mickey takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, willing away his murderous tendencies. He turned Ian, it would probably be frowned upon if he were to kill him. The whole, I brought you into the world, I can take you out, doesn't really apply here. 

"Nothing about that movie is accurate, Ian," he says as steadily as he can. 

"Really? Not even the Volturi? Cause I could totally see you in those robes." 

"Will you just shut up, please?"

Ian smirks, but folds his hands neatly in his lap and mercifully stays quiet for a good few minutes, just long enough really for Mickey glance every few seconds at the man next to him and start to wonder why; why is he actually being quiet? He never is. And his silence is weirding Mickey out.

"S'wrong with you now?" He asks, feigning disinterest. 

"I dunno. Just trying to be quiet. Like you asked," Ian shrugs and settles down a little lower on the couch with his bottom lip poked out a little further than the bump from his fangs. 

Mickey doesn't say anything because he knows there's more to come if he just gives him a minute. Ian isn't great at letting things go. 

"I'm just lonely, I guess," he finally mumbles. And okay, that's fair. It's not like Mickey is the most social guy, after all. He likes to be left alone, and that in turn leaves Ian alone. 

Mickey chews on his bottom lip, feels the sting of his tooth ripping at the soft flesh, and he makes an executive decision. He tugs at Ian's arm, and maneuvers him so that Ian's back is pressed to Mickey's front, and he drapes an arm over Ian's shoulder. 

"What are you-"

"Just shut up," Mickey says, and Ian does. But this time he's smiling. 

~

It's eight months later and Mickey sits with a cigarette burning between his fingers in the dark corner of an otherwise electric pulsing club. The strobe lights cast shades of blue and purple against his porcelain skin while the pulsing bass of the music rattles his teeth together in the worst way. He hates it here. Doesn't like coming at all, but this is where Ian is. 

Ian is a hundred feet away on the dance floor, moving his body like it was made just for this. He's got a guy in front of him, rubbing his skanky fucking ass against the dark denim of Ian's jeans, and Mickey fucking seethes with anger as he watches- watches as the dumb fucking twink reaches back and threads his fingers through Ian's hair. Watches as Ian's long, dexterous fingers trace circles on the guys waist band. Watches as Ian leans in close and whispers something to the guy- then watches the guy grin up at him like he's hit the jackpot. And then, he watches as Ian grabs his hand and starts leading him to the back entrance of the building, the one that lets out by the dumpsters in the alley. 

Mickey curses under his breath and stubs out the butt of his smoke and clambers to his feet, pace fast and intent on following the pair. He opens the door quietly, but evidently not quietly enough when the guy that Ian has pushed up against the wall struggles away from Ian's mouth to glare in Mickey's direction. 

"You mind?" The guys asks, and Mickey grins and rubs his thumb across his top lip. 

He doesn't answer, but Ian does. 

"Shh, baby. Let him watch," Ian husks, and gives Mickey a wink over his shoulder before diving back in to the guys open mouth. Ian kisses him sloppily, with wet lips and far too much tongue. Mickey's stomach roils. 

"Think he wants it, Mick," Ian says when Mickey sidles up close to the pair. 

"That's enough," Mickey says when he can't watch it anymore. "Do it now." 

"What-" the guy starts, but Ian pulls his face back to his. 

"Look at me," Ian commands, and the guy does, though it's clear he's horribly confused. "You want me, don't you?" 

The guy nods, and Mickey can see the corner of Ian's lip twitch with satisfaction. 

"Tell me how bad," he murmurs against the guys lips. 

"I want you real fucking bad," the guy tells him, and accentuates his point by rolling his hips against Ian's. 

"Wonder how you taste..." Ian sighs and lets his tongue travel down the length of the guys jaw and to his neck. He gives it a quick kiss, right at his pulse point before laving his tongue over the salt slicked skin. 

"Ian," Mickey warns, fingers twitching at his sides. "Do. It. Now." 

Ian pulls back from the little home he's made at the jut of the jaw, and stares deep into the guys eyes. 

"Focus on what you want," Mickey tells him lowly. "And tell him to give it to you." 

He can see the bob of Ian's Adam's apple as he nods, and to anyone else, he'd seem cool and calm. But Mickey knows him better than all the rest of them. Knows he's nervous as all hell and fighting off his nerves with invisible swords. 

"I want your wallet," Ian says and swallows again. 

Mickey lets out a breath of a laugh and shakes his head. No. That won't do. He lacks conviction and his words come out in more of a question than a command. 

"What?" The guy asks again, agitation in his voice now. 

"Deeper, Ian. Focus deeper. Envision it. See him handing it to you." 

Ian nods and clears his throat. 

"I want your wallet," he says slower. And there it is. The moment it clicks. The moment the guy's eyes go glassy and his shoulders slump down. His body relaxes in Ian's touch, going soft and pliant before his hand reaches slowly toward his back pocket and he hands Ian his wallet. 

Ian takes it quickly and tosses it to Mickey without looking away, and Mickey is pleasantly surprised to find a tiny stack of bills. He pockets the cash and dumps the wallet at the guy's feet, smiling as he takes in Ian's concentrated form. 

"You want me to bite you, don't you?" Ian asks, and chances a grin at Mickey when the guy nods his head before tilting to the side, exposing himself without Ian even having to ask. 

"Not too much," Mickey reminds him when Ian latches on. He waits a few patient moments before he tells Ian to back off. He's pleasantly surprised to find that Ian listens the first time and pulls away, smiling triumphantly at Mickey when he does so. 

"Now lick the wound so it closes," Mickey reminds him. 

"Come do it with me," Ian says, and licks the drying blood from his lips. 

Mickey doesn't have to be told twice. Ian leans away just a hair, enough for Mickey to weasel his way against the guys neck, letting his unnecessary breath ghost against his marred skin and Ian's still wet lips. He takes a long lap at the wound, keeping his eyes trained on Ian's, and in turn Ian does the same. 

It's kind of fucking weird, but kind of really fucking hot as they tongue fuck their way across the bloodied surface and closer to each other. Closer, closer, closer until they touch, and then. And then it's a free for all. They leave the guy slouched against the wall, still in a daze and a little paler than they found him, but it's not of any import right now, because all Mickey can taste is Ian. All he can smell is Ian. All he can feel is just. Ian. 

After what feels like an eternity, they finally part just long enough for Mickey to urge the guy to forget what he saw and go back inside for a glass of water, and then they pick right back up where they left off. 

Later, they're laying in bed and Ian is all smiles. 

"I did it! My very first time, and I didn't fuck it up." 

Mickey is overwhelmingly proud of him, and whispers so against Ian's lips as they start round two. 

~

It's forty four years later and they're living in a tiny little shoe box apartment in New York. There's not much to look at in the apartment- just a fridge, a bed, and a half sized little couch in front of a decent tv. There's not much to look at outside of the apartment, either- the windows open up to a brick wall across a tiny little alley way. But it doesn't matter, because time for vampires doesn't quite move the same as it does for mortals, and Ian and Mickey are still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, and everything is absolutely perfect. 

Mickey grumbles as Ian tugs on his hair, sectioning it off to apply the second coating of bleach. A hair stylist he is not, but the kids these days and their fucking wild styles dictate that Mickey needs to update his appearance a little so that they better blend in. 

"Jesus, man. You pull it any harder and you're gonna rip it out at the root," Mickey complains, and Ian snickers at him. 

"I know you're not laughing at me, you fucking Oompa Loompa," he snarls (though Ian is not now, nor has he ever been afraid of Mickey). 

"Did you just call me- is that why you picked green for my hair color? So you could demean me in my own home, Milkovich?" 

"Green on top, orange down south, bitch," Mickey grins like the evil little cat (or bat) he is. 

"You're a dick. We'll see how much you're laughing when I get done with you." 

"You ever gonna tell me what color I'm getting?" Mickey asks through gritted teeth as Ian tugs particularly hard near the nape of his neck. 

"Sure, Mick. I'll tell you once it's done."

Mickey wants to be annoyed. Wants to have the capacity to give any sort of ill will towards his partner- but he can't. He hasn't had that ability in far too long, even more so now as he looks up to green hair, smudgy blue eye shadow and dark lined eyes. 

In another life, he may have taken to using his fists against someone dressed this way; looking the way they do. Many years ago this style would have earned damn near anyone the title of a "fag," but that's just the way it is now (and Mickey doesn't mind the slur so much anymore, anyway). 

No, where once he found Ian to be not much more than someone to bristle his nerves, now he finds someone who almost always just makes him feel calm and happy and warm even though his veins are without blood. So now when he wants to scowl, he finds that he can only smile bright and wide, letting his fangs tickle against his bottom lip. 

Ian's moves from the back of Mickey's head to the front again, muttering about how he needs to get the roots now and starts slopping the paste against Mickey's scalp in heavy dollops. It burns just a little, but Mickey can't focus on that just now. Instead, he focuses on settling his hands delicately against the jut of Ian's pronounced hip bones and indulges in the feel of fingers in his hair. 

A few hours later, Mickey and Ian stand side by side in the dingy bathroom and take in their reflections (it's still amusing that people have the misconception that vampires can't see them selves- how else would they all be so beautiful?) as they wipe away tears at the udder lunacy that stares back at them. 

Ian, in all of his shit head tendencies, had chosen bright fucking orange for Mickey's look. "An homage to my former self," he'd proclaimed with a loud cackle as he took in the creases of Mickey's incredulous forehead. His eyes are painted in hot pink on the lids and a royal purple on his lash line, and he thinks he could probably be the grand Marshall at a fucking pride parade. 

"Well, what'a ya think, Mick?" Ian asks and slides an arm across Mickey's shoulders, unable to bite back his sheer joy. 

"I think I look even more ridiculous than you, you fucking clown." 

"Yeah," Ian agrees whole heartedly. "But you always did." He leaves a loud smacking kiss against Mickey's cheek and waits for Mickey to take his hand before they leave for the night. 

~

It's thirty two years later and they're living in Seattle with constant sopping shoes and dampened clothes. This time their apartment is a little nicer- though it's not as if they want anything flashy. But this space has more than one room and a window that overlooks the city, rather than just a wall. They're comfortable here, have been for about sixteen years, and it's been great. 

Ian is the only other person on Earth that doesn't make Mickey want to stab pencils in his ears (though that's putting it mildly) and Mickey is the only man that Ian's ever loved unconditionally. 

They've been together for an entire human lifetime, and Mickey knows just about everything there is to know about someone. He knows that Ian likes to go for long runs, even though there isn't a need for physical fitness. He knows that even though they don't need nutrition the same way their human bodies did, Ian still likes to eat fresh fruit in the summer. He knows that Ian cries when he watches old Pixar movies. And he knows when the tears are more than just from something so shallow. 

So when he wakes up at dusk on June 23rd and he hears soft sobbing coming from the living room, he knows something is really and truly wrong. On high alert, he throws the bedroom door open and sprints down the hall to find Ian slumped on the couch with his hands cupping his face. 

"S'wrong?" Mickey asks, panicked. He's been with Ian for decades and decades, but he never was a comforting creature. So he stands there awkwardly as he watches his partner melt down, shuffling from foot to foot uneasily when Ian doesn't answer him right away. 

"Liam died," Ian finally says and sputters out a wet cry when he gets it out. "I-I looked him up. Was curious, y'know. And- he fucking died. A couple years ago and I wasn't there. He didn't even know I'm still alive. None of them did! And now- now they're all gone. I- Mickey..." 

Mickey sits down next to him and pulls him to his chest. He knows that Ian's family was very different from his own. He didn't give a shit when any of them died- besides maybe his sister. But he hadn't cried for her. Instead he'd taken to a full bottle of whiskey in her honor and called it a night. 

"I'm sorry, man. I really am," he tries, but Ian shakes his head and pulls away. 

"What's the point of all this, huh? We just keep on living and watch everyone we love die? I don't have anyone, anymore. And I'm still here! And I'm not gonna die. Not til I'm ready to fucking end it myself. It's not fucking fair... it's not fucking fair." 

Mickey doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing at all. Distantly, the back of his mind is telling him that this is some twisted form of survivor's guilt, but painfully, he doesn't know how to remedy it. So he watches Ian pace and swear and cry and tear at his hair. Watches him crumple and pull himself together, only to melt down again a few moments later.

Mickey can't lie and say that Ian's never been an emotional man. He's always taken things to the heart a lot more than Mickey himself, but this. This is a whole new level; the way he quietly pulls his knees beneath his chin and rocks back and forth. The way he buries his face into the touch denim and his shoulder shake hard enough to look painful. It's hard to watch, but Mickey doesn't make a move to go. 

It's a couple of exhausting hours later when Ian finally pulls himself from the couch and wordlessly makes his way to their shared bedroom, and Mickey feels relived. He gets Ian not wanting to talk about it- he wouldn't want to either. The relief is short lived however, when Ian comes back out later with a backpack slung over his shoulder and a resolute look about him. 

"Going somewhere?" Mickey asks as he bites at his lower lip. 

"Yeah. I, uh. I don't know. I need to get out of the house," Ian says as he fiddles with the straps across his chest. He's not looking at Mickey, he's looking anywhere but, and the sinking feeling in Mickey's gut gets heavier by the second. 

"Okay..." he agrees, trying to be respectful of Ian's mourning, even though he's starting to panic. "When, ah, when you coming back?" 

Ian's hand slides over the handle leading to the outside, and he leans his forehead against the dark grain of the wooden door. There's a long, stagnant pause, one long enough for Mickey's world to come crashing down, because for as well as he knows Ian; there's no way he couldn't know what's coming next. 

"You're not coming back, are you?" 

Ian turns around, finally, but he doesn't look like himself. He looks wild and untamed- disheveled and weak all at the same time. 

"No." 

"So this is it. This is you breaking up with me." It's not a question. He doesn't need to ask because he can see all that he needs to in the way Ian's looking back at him. 

"Yeah." 

"Why?" Mickey's on his feet now, crowding into Ian's space, because while Ian is a man of many emotions, Mickey is a man of few. The occasional happiness, sure, but the predominant emotion he feels is rage. 

"Too much is wrong here, Mick. Too much," he sighs. 

"Too much is wr- fuck you mean, Ian? We're happy! We've been happy for years. A fucking lifetime. I'm sorry your family is... I'm sorry. But we are not wrong!" He can feel his insides start to ignite with the anger as his voice rises and if his heart were able to pump, his skin would be a vibrant red to match. 

"Fine! Then there's too much wrong with me. Too much," he yells back and holds his arms out at his sides. "I gotta go." 

~

It's twenty two years later and Mickey sits in another shady bar in another shady part of town. He doesn't know what city he's in; he moves around too much and he drowns his insides in too much whiskey to give a shit anymore. 

There's other things that he could drink- modern alcohol that won't leave him spilling his guts on the sidewalk outside, but Mickey is a creature of habit, and very much prefers the way it burns on the way down his throat. 

The holographic tv shows a spaceball game with The Braves and The Astros, so he's probably either in Georgia or Texas, maybe. Who knows. 

There's a man at the end of the bar that's been making eyes at him for the last two innings of the game, and while many things have changed over the years, picking up randos in a bar has not. So, he does what he's always does; raises his eyebrow and nods towards the bathroom and heads that way without turning around to see if he's being followed. He always gets followed. 

He fucks the guy (he's always on top these days, and it's been for fucking ever since he's had it the way he wants it) before he urges him. He never fucks someone once they're "hypnotized," for lack of a better word. It's only once they're finished and the other guy is panting that he looks deep into a set of brown eyes, asks for a wallet, asks for his blood, and then tells him to get a glass of water and forget he'd ever seen Mickey. 

\- 

It's five years later and Mickey is in what he thinks is South Dakota, in another shitty bar in another shitty part of town. This time he's still been drinking whiskey, but he's also been drinking the newer shit, and he's paired it with some modern shit someone told him to shoot in his arm for a real good buzz. 

He thinks, distantly, that it's a good thing his immune system won't allow him to get sick, cause who the fuck knows what the other guy had floating around in his blood stream. 

It's the same routine. Fuck the guy. Urge him to give him his money. Bite him. Suck the blood. 

But this time he drinks too much and the guy dies. Mickey leaves him in the alley behind the bar. 

-

It's four years later and Mickey is in Oregon, in another shitty part of town. Same routine. Same bite. Same drinking too much. Same dead body in the aftermath. 

-

Eight years later and Mickey is in Massachusetts. This time his body count stacks up high. He doesn't feel remorse. 

-

Twelve years later he's somewhere either in Canada or way up North in the US. He leaves a pile of bodies before he moves on. 

-

Ten years later and Mickey is ready to end it. He's been at this for too long without any sense of purpose. He just travels around the country, gets wasted out of his fucking mind and moves on. Rinse and repeat. Repeat repeat repeat. 

In the spirit of one last "hurrah," he goes back to Chicago to say goodbye to his birthplace. He visits what's left of what he remembers- it's been a long, long time since he's been in these neck of the woods and nearly nothing is the same. He may as well have skipped this whole charade and just offed himself in Vermont, but he's here now, so, whatever. He looks around. 

The Alibi is long gone, to no one's surprise. His old house has been demolished- the whole block has been, replaced instead with modern high rise condos that seem to go up and up and up for as far as the eye can see. He's not sad about it, not really. That house held nothing but bad memories and the ghosts of his long dead family. Who cares if he doesn't get to piss on the old, weathered brick one last time? 

He takes a trip down South Wallace, for no particular reason. The houses there are gone as well, but this time it does send a little pang of regret through his chest. He pushes it away- what good would it do him to feel bad about a fucking house? He never even visited it. Just heard about it from...

The only thing that remains, after a hundred fucking years is fucking boys town. If there's one thing that can stand the test of time it's getting booze and getting dick, so even though it does make him let loose a hollow chuckle, he isn't terribly surprised to see the strip of gay bars. 

What a poetic way to end things. End where he started. He plans on spending every last penny he's got on fruity ass drinks and getting well and truly fucked for the first time in too long, and then that's it. Lights. Fucking. Out. 

He orders a drink he remembers Ian raving about- an appletini, and while it's an outdated term and the bartender looks at him like he's grown a second head, he walks the guy through what he assumes would be in such a drink, and ends up with something that doesn't go down too rough. 

He's somewhere between drink number five and drink number fifteen when someone sits down next to him. He doesn't look up from his drink, because why the fuck would he? He sits in silence for a good few, long moments before the phantom to his right speaks. 

"Been looking for you." 

His head whips up involuntarily. If he didn't have a BAC of well above the legal limit he probably would have just left. But he does have that much alcohol and he finds he can't move. Because sitting next to him is Ian, looking almost the same as the last time he'd seen him, only now his natural color is back, but it's shaped into a decent sized Mohawk (he always was one for keeping up with the trends). He's got piercings littering his face and ears, and smudged black eyeliner rimming his eyes. 

If Mickey were of this time, he'd probably love the look. If he'd grown up seeing people look this way, Ian would be the perfect model picture of what a man is supposed to look like in this day and age. But Mickey isn't from this time, and he remembers what Ian used to look like. 

"You look real dumb," he says and washes the words down his throat with the last of his drink. 

"And you look exactly the same," Ian comments dryly, but he grins after he says it. 

"So you been looking for me, huh?" 

"Long time now," Ian nods and takes a swig of whatever the fuck he's got. "Seem to always be one step behind you." 

"Oh, yeah? How you know where I been?" 

Ian lets out a harsh breath through his nose, a twisted love child between a laugh and a snort. 

"You're the Cross Country Creature." 

Mickey twists up his face and tries to piece together what the fuck Ian is saying through his foggy brain. 

"The fuck you just call me?" 

"Guessing you don't watch the news much. You never really did... Mick, you're one of the most prolific serial killers in modern history. The Cross Country Creature is what they call you."

“S’a stupid fucking name, isn’t it?” Mickey scoffs. 

“Yeah, well... stupid of you to do. Could have gotten yourself caught,” Ian says, voice just barely audible over the pulsing throb of the techno music. 

“How you even know it was me?” Mickey asks, keeping his eyes anywhere but on Ian. 

“Mickey... some guy hunts down redheads, bleeds ‘em dry with two puncture wounds in their neck. Wasn’t hard to put two and two together,” Ian says with an air of chastisement. “Some people are even starting to think it’s a v-v-vampire.” 

Mickey smiles at this, the stupidity of it all. His actions. The way he left those bodies out for anyone to see. The redheads. Ian. It’s all such a fucking dumb way to end his last day on earth. Leave it to Mickey fucking Milkovich to send himself off like this. 

“You really hate me that much?” Ian asks after a few moments of silence. 

“What?” 

“They all... the hair. You really wanted to kill me over and over? Hate me that bad?” 

Mickey smiles again. But this time it doesn’t reach his eyes. He taps his fingers against the wood of the bar, something without rhythm before he finally turns fully to face this mohawked asshole. 

“No. It wasn’t cause I hate you.” 

~

It’s a week later and Mickey decides that maybe he’ll give himself a few more days before he does the deed, if only to give himself a little more time with Ian. Ian, who dragged his drunk ass back to his hotel room that morning, who still has a mini fridge full of fruit that he doesn’t need, who still laughs too loud at stupid fucking hologram shows, who still calls him Mick and who leans against him on the couch. 

Mickey deserves a few more days. Maybe. 

~

It’s fifty seven years later and Mickey opens his eyes in Pennsylvania to find Ian’s own far too close. Mickey goes a little cross eyed at the proximity, but doesn’t make a move to shoo him away. Instead he smirks and lets out a useless huff of breath. 

“Help you with something?” He asks, scratchy and raspy from sleep. 

“You ever heard of a blood oath?” 

Mickey pulls away and sits up in their shared bed, tangling his fingers in his still slicked down hair. As styles come and go, this one he likes. They say that fashion always makes a come back, and the 1950’s pompadour style (though it’s been recycled again and again since that time) has always been one of his favorites. He thinks Ian looks particularly good clean shaven and well kept, and if he has to do his hair every fucking day so that Ian will too, well so be it. 

“A blood oath? Like a pact or whatever?” He’s still a little too groggy to think clearly, and apparently Ian’s a little annoyed by this. 

“It’s different for vampires, Mickey. Don’t you know anything?” 

Mickey lights up the pipe sitting on his end table (the fashion isn’t the only thing that’s made a come back) and blows his smoke in a swirl above their heads. 

“Enlighten me.” 

“Well. It’s like, uh...” Ian mumbles and moves to lean on his knees at the edge of the bed, pulling his suspenders tight across his shoulders. “You remember when people used to...”

“Used to... finish their sentences?” Mickey parrots and rolls his hand to get Ian to get the fuck on with it. 

“Get, you know. Married. Long time ago?” 

“Get married? Haven’t heard that word in a long time. People don’t do that anymore.” 

“No, I know. I know. But it’s. The blood oath. For vampires. It’s like that.” 

Mickey blows out a last billow of smoke and sets his pipe back on the end table, thoroughly confused as to why he’s getting a history lesson at eight in the fucking evening. It’s too early for Ian’s bullshit. But then again, it always is. 

“Okay... so?” 

“So I wanna do it. With you.” 

Mickey’s eyebrows inch up his forehead like they’re praying for release, and his brain short circuits a little. Marriage isn’t something he’s ever seen for himself, especially since marriage in and of itself isn’t even a thing. Hasn’t been for decades. 

“You wanna... Marry me?” 

“Well,” Ian says and shifts around to face Mickey. “Bite you. And you bite me. And we drink. But yeah, I kinda really wanna fucking marry you, Mick.” 

“Why?” 

“Because we fucking love each other, that’s why,” snaps, a sudden surge of embarrassment radiating throughout his dead body. “And I trust you. Do you love and trust me, too?” He says, quieter, and holds his hand out for Mickey’s. 

Does Mickey love and trust him? 

Mickey found him in his human body and brought him home. Patched him up and made him like himself. He lived in every state with him. Countless cities. Cried with him. Laughed with him. Slept with him. Ate with him. Hunted with him. Played with him. Stayed the same with him. Changed with him. Came back to him. Always. 

“Fuck it. I do,” he smiles and gives Ian his hand. 

If Mickey knew that raising a newborn vampire was this much work, well, he’d do it again in a heartbeat.


End file.
